


Welcome to the World of Plastic Beach

by toxicNeurosis



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Amnesia, Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Build, few headcanons on plastic beach and its surroundings and composition and such, not enough reader fics in this fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6137523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxicNeurosis/pseuds/toxicNeurosis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re not sure where you are -- okay, you’re not sure of much of anything, really, except your name, at least you’re sure of that -- but Wherever feels like a nice sea breeze and a sun-warmed sandy beach. It feels kind of pleasant, like a pleasant place to not remember anything on.</p><p>Or at least it would be pleasant if the breeze didn’t reek and feel gritty and the ground didn’t feel less like sand and more like some kind of oil-saturated sponge.</p><p>(Phase 3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All The Castle's Under Siege But The Sign Outside Says "Leave Me Alone"

You’re not sure where you are -- okay, you’re not sure of much of anything, really, except your name, at least you’re sure of that -- but Wherever feels like a nice sea breeze and a sun-warmed sandy beach. It feels kind of pleasant, like a pleasant place to not remember anything on.

Or at least it would be pleasant if the breeze didn’t reek and feel gritty and the ground didn’t feel less like sand and more like some kind of oil-saturated sponge.

Everything feels nasty at this point, now that you’re beginning to come around -- your clothes are sodden and abnormally heavy and probably well past ruined by this point and you feel like you just took a bath in motor lubricant. Your mouth tastes horrible as well -- maybe you did take a bath in motor lube, probably swallowed some.

It’s too much effort to try and move, your limbs don’t feel like they’d function even if they wanted to and your eyes don’t want to open anyway, glued shut by whatever you decided to go swimming in, so you lay there in a sodden heap and try to recollect your thoughts. You remember that you’d been out at sea, yeah, on some kind of cruise liner, you think. Then these black helicopters came out of nowhere and drove it straight into the sea. Dammit, world government, why must you be such shits, bombing and shooting up innocent cruise liners instead of criminals and terrorists? You remember some little wooden lifeboat, hardly more than a rowboat, really, in which you’d stowed away what little you could get ahold of before the ship sank. You wonder what happened to it, but you guess you can just find out later. The thick stink of the breeze is starting to make you sleepy again, and nothing would feel better than a nap right now.

Your nap is interrupted by a sharp prod of something hard to your side, then another, and another. You’re about to tell whoever it is off when voices reach your ears, slightly muffled by whatever’s clogged them but you can hear them pretty well otherwise.

“What is it, Cy? Looks like more garbage t'me.” The first voice is more of a growl, slightly strained and raspy, kind of like what you’d expect an old fighting dog to have. Clearly British and clearly male.

“Alive.” The second voice is cold and hard, emotionless, like some kind of villain or robot or villain robot, but otherwise it sounds female, a lot younger, too. Sort of indistinguishable accent, something that sounds like it should be Japanese and British all at once.

The first voice comes again. “So what, y’mean something worth eating actually washed up this time? ‘M gettin’ sick o’ them jellyfish, and I ain’t far from tryin’ my ‘and at fishin’ for that damn whale, as useful as it is. Not s’much right now. Might ‘ave t'dock ‘is pay for this little incident.”

“No. It is human.”

“Sure?” There’s a pause. “Alright, lemme take this knuckle’ead back t' ‘is room where ‘e belongs and I’ll take care of it. Make sure it stays alive.” The ground squelches, then crunches, as Mr. Growl walks off, grumbling something to himself the entire time.

The hard object prods you again. “Up. I know you are awake.” It jabs again and again until you finally groan in frustration and attempt to heave yourself upward. A pair of arms ending in rather small and abnormally strong hands grab your underarms and assist in hoisting you up, sitting you firmly on your ass. “What are you doing here?”

You attempt to explain to Robovillain all you can remember -- in the process learning that the air tastes just as bad as it smells and feels -- and try to pry your eyes open. Your vision swims when you finally do and you almost flop on your back again -- the only reason you don’t is due to the interference of whatever’s been jabbing you the whole time. The world is a blurry and hideously bright pink as you try to focus. “But that’s all I remember. Honest.”

Robovillain is silent for a moment. “Fine. I cannot sense that you are lying. You will remain here until Mr. Murdoc returns.”

Murdoc. So that’s Mr. Growl’s real name. “I don’t think I could move if I wanted to.” The small and blurry form that is Robovillain looks down at you -- or at least you think she’s looking down at you -- but doesn’t say anything. You take the time to clear your sight and get a grip on your surroundings. The ground beneath you is spongy, squishy, seeps some kind of oily substance when you press down on it, and is clearly spray-painted Pepto-Bismol pink. You think there might be things buried under the surface, and you’re not sure you want to know what those things are. Further on the ground is firmer, you think, and you can see all sorts of junk poking through the surface. The sea is dark, too dark to be natural, and gives off a rainbowy, oily sheen in the sunlight. Further on the water gives way to a thick mist. The sky, anticlimactically, is as clear and blue as if there’s nothing wrong with the world. And you thought this place had been pleasant.

Robovillain would be adorable if she didn’t look like she wants to murder you. Short choppy black hair with some kind of purple sheen to it, pale olive skin -- so she is Japanese -- and bright green eyes, small and slight in figure, and wielding a fucking enormous gun. That must have been what was prodding you before. Despite her choice in clothing, a cutoff tank top and a pair of shorts that are really too short for anyone with dignity to be wearing, she looks really familiar. Some celebrity or something, maybe? The hole in her head really draws your attention -- sparks snap back and forth from one edge of the exposed metal and carbon fiber in the hole to the other. Sometimes she twitches when the hole sparks, and the whites of her eyes flash with an odd electric light. So maybe she really is a robot, if her functioning despite the hole in her head is any indication. When she catches you staring you look away immediately.

The crunching of someone walking, and the immediate squelching of Robovillain walking towards it, turns your attention away from the landscape. No more than twenty feet away stands a tall man with a bad moptop dressed all in black. His skin, though it could just be the distance away from him and the weird atmosphere of the place, looks kind of green. In all, he looks like a younger -- but not by much -- Keith Richards gone horribly wrong. He also looks really familiar. Robovillain is talking to him, most likely telling him what you already told her. After a moment he walks over, his shoes pushing more oil from the ground, and extends a -- yes, most definitely green -- hand to you. His yellowed fingernails look horrid, like he hasn’t cut them in weeks. You take his hand anyway; you don’t think you’d be able to get up on your own and Robovillain would probably sooner kill you than help you stand. His skin feels greasy, just like yours does right now.

“Ah, sorry for the rude awakening, I ‘ope Cy didn’t scare ya too bad.” Definitely British, but that doesn’t mean you trust him to be kind, not just yet. “‘Ow ya feelin’?”

“Greasy, nervous, confused, and oddly two-dimensional.”

“Really? I thought we were the only ones who felt like that. Anyway, Cy tells me ya can’t remember nary a thing, washed up here from some kinda shipwreck?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Right then, let’s see if we’ve got any room for ya in this place.” He places a gnarled hand against your back and starts leading you further inland, towards a large mountain that more resembles a pink fallout cloud. “I kinda doubt it, though, between us an' the collaborators an' the occasional mutant crab we’re kinda chock-full, y’know. But where are my manners, Murdoc Niccals, bassist an' mastermind of Gorillaz, at y’service.”

That’s why he looks so familiar. You went to a show of theirs what seems like forever ago, not a very nice man, this guy. You decide time hasn’t been very kind to him either. You don’t even realize he’s stopped until you bump into him. He spreads his arms wide and turns to you with a snaggle-toothed grin. “Welcome t'Plastic Beach, by the way. Made this beauty myself. Okay, not really, it was already ‘ere; I just spray-painted it and built our ‘eadquarters up there. ‘Skinda where all the world’s trash eventually winds up, all right ‘ere.”

That explains his presence, at least.

You follow him up a small boardwalk into the neck of the island, watching as he struggles with the lift -- “Damn thing never works right.” -- and continue to follow him as he inspects various rooms on various floors, many of which contain things you can now never unsee and some of which even he makes disgusted faces at. You recognize many faces -- Snoop Dogg, Bobby Womack, Mos Def, Nenah Cherry. Before you know it, you’ve returned to the lift and Murdoc is growling even more so than earlier.

“Dammit, no fuckin’ room anywhere. Only room I know of that ain’t at full capacity or unwilling t'make room i--” He stops, stares at the many buttons directing to the many floors of the island, stares at you, then back to the floor directory. You can almost see the (probably) rusting gears in his mind turning. He jabs the button for the lowest level of the island, has to pry the door open when it sticks for the umpteenth time when it finally lands. “Down ‘ere’s our singer, 2D.” You remember him well enough, the skinny blue-haired giant of the band, sweet but a bit dense. “Don’t usually let ‘im ‘ave guests, ‘e keeps tryin’ t'run away, the knuckle’ead. Caught ‘im tryin’ t’swim for it earlier, ‘e almost made it ‘alfway t'the mists. Only ‘cause that damn whale that’s s’posed t'be guardin’ ‘im was shitfaced. I’m like t’ave ‘im sacked, I am. The whale, not 2D, I kinda need that moron.”

He walks over to a heavy steel door not far from the lift and pries it open. “Oi, faceache! Ya’ve got company!” Inside the room is mostly barren, save for a rickety-looking bed and a small boxy television in one corner, a few bits of random junk and discarded clothing lying around, oily spots where you think the ceiling and walls might be leaking. 2d is hunched over on the bed, coughing harshly as some kind of fish flops around on the floor beneath him.

“Fought it was all just a dream,” he mumbles, “just fought it was a dream an’ I’d finally gotten away, that is till I wake up in bed all soppin’ wet an' this bloody cod’s jumpin’ ‘round in my gullet. Least I fink it’s a cod.” He squints at it, then stares up at Murdoc and inches away. “What d’you want?”

“Relax, ya bloody sod, I’m not ‘ere t’beat ya within an inch of your life yet. Don’t think you’re gettin’ away unpunished just yet, just, ah, ran into a bit of a problem that needs takin’ care of.” He pushes you through the door none too gently. “Long story short, she needs somewhere t’sleep. Figured you wouldn’t object much.”

He squints suspiciously at you, then at Murdoc. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is do it or I’ll feed ya t’that bloomin’ whale out there.”

“Okay! Okay! Geez, no stops pulled there.”

“Good. You’re still gettin’ punished for pullin’ that little stunt, I just ain’t thought of anythin’ suitable yet.” Without another word said, he shoves the door shut and locks it firmly.

2D sighs, prods at the still-flopping fish with his foot. “Welp. Welcome t’the bunker. Least that’s what I call it. Ain’t much more’n that, really. Fink I preferred bein’ unconscious in a suitcase t’this.” He blinks up at you. “‘Ow’d you get ‘ere?”

You sit down next to him -- damn, this bed’s uncomfortable -- and explain what you can remember. He nods. “There’s a toilet an' shower past that little door there.” He jabs a skinny finger towards a small steel door in the far wall. “Not the cleanest, but it’ll help get rid o’ that gross feelin’ some. Real cramped in there, be careful. I fink I might be able t'find summfink for you t'wear, if you don' mind men's clothes, anyway."

You don't object -- oversized men's clothes are better than what you're wearing right now, stained in oil and grease and salt and bilgewater and definitely, perfectly ruined. The shower is small, hardly big enough to even get in let alone move around comfortably, and the water still feels greasy but it does help. You're not that much cleaner when you get out and your entire digestive tract still feels lubricated but it's an improvement. 2D cracks the door open only enough to hand you a towel, a shirt, pants, and a pair of boxers, all amidst a chorus of _sorrys_.

You never really realized before this moment how comfortable men's underwear could be, or anything men wear, for that matter.

When you get out 2D is sitting on the floor with a pocketknife in hand and what looks like a very large dark bruise forming on the side of his head, practically chopping away at the cardboard of an ice-crusted box between his legs.

"Ain't much, but we got dinner. Don't like eatin' these fings, though, they look too 'appy t'eat. Don't taste too 'appy, though." Some of the cardboard comes off enough for him to tug at it, revealing several colorful blobs encased in the block of ice within. "Shit, where'd I put that 'airdryer." He turns to the bed and fumbles blindly beneath it before digging out a worn hairdryer that still looks to be partially pink and an extension cord, plugs it in and flips it on, sitting there watching the ice melt. As the ice melts the blobs become brightly-colored jellyfish that are still wriggling slightly, wearing big silly grins. "Nuffin' t'cook these wiff, sorry. Better than nuffin', I guess." He pries a squishy body from the thawing block and hands it to you. It waves a dangling tentacle and smiles. 2D has a point, it looks too happy to eat, especially when it's still alive.

"What even are these?"

"Dunno, really. We jus' call 'em Superfast Jellyfish. Only fings that can survive out 'ere, for some reason."

"Why are you guys even out here?"

"New album Murdoc wants done, even though we kinda broke up back a few years ago. I said no an' got thrown in a suitcase an' shipped 'ere. 'E pretty much did the same wiff everyone else 'ere. 'E won't let anyone leave 'til it's done. Could be years. An' now that you're 'ere, you're stuck jus' like the rest of us, sorry. 'E don't want nuffin' 'bout the album or this island gettin' out, not a peep, unless 'e wants it to. You've seen too much, you know too much, and there's no way for you t'leave anyway; that cyborg'd shoot you down if Murdoc ordered it. If not 'er, then those weird 'copters we see from time t'time or that bleedin' whale would do ya in. It's too far t'swim anyway."

"So that's it then. I'm stuck here."

"Yeah, sorry. Least Murdoc won't do anyfin' t'you, probably, not yet, an' I kinda like your company." He pries another jellyfish from the ice block and bites into it, making a face. "Welcome t'Plastic Beach, love."


	2. And It's Not That Far From Here To New Orleans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You learn within a week that there's no such thing as privacy down in the bunker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this one's short. Oh well. Next one will be longer.
> 
> Kudos to whomever can guess the songs the chapter titles are from.
> 
> I'm not sure how long this'll be in terms of chapters, exactly, so just bear with me.

You learn within a week that there's no such thing as privacy down in the bunker.

There's Murdoc, for starters, coming down in the rickety, liable-to-jam lift, banging on the door and barging in at any moment's notice to shout at somebody -- usually 2D -- or to quite literally throw your meals through the door -- as the week progresses, those meals slowly become more tolerable to your tastes, from boxed and frozen Superfast Jellyfish to lukewarm edible roots like potatoes to a still-flopping cod on Thursday, which looked suspicious but still tasted vaguely like fish -- Murdoc was actually kind enough to lend the two of you a Bunsen burner to cook it. 2D attributed the change in menu to your presence in the bunker as he was descaling and gutting the cod.

"Not entirely, though," he'd told you. "It gets like this when I don' try t'run away. 'Slike a rewards system or summfink similar. Just 'appens a lot more slowly. 'E brings other junk too, the XBox, iPad, 'e gave me my Bloo-Ray back one time, there was a microwave down 'ere once. That was a pretty good microwave, too." But he does agree with himself that Murdoc is in charge, being the band's leader and all, and that the system is firm, but fair. You're not sure exactly whether or not to agree with this.

You also learned by accident that he's supposed to be a vegetarian, because apparently not many know he's actually a Buddhist. When you asked him about it while he was gutting the cod, he shrugged. "Can't afford t'be picky down 'ere, if bein' picky means I go to bed wiff my tummy yellin' at me all night. 'Sides, I've been finkin' 'bout goin' back to Judaism. Mum always said I was only still alive cuz o' the big man upstairs, and Buddha ain't done shit t' 'elp me. I miss chicken, too, and the occasional burger, like, real beef, not soy or oats, so there's that."

The cyborg masquerading as the band's guitarist, Noodle, is a bit less intrusive. She only comes down every now and then to peer through a crack in the door to make sure no one's dead or suspiciously missing, then carries on her way without saying a word.

Honestly the collaborators are the worst, snitching down to the bunker to use the toilet because someone clogged the main pipe or to sneak in or snatch away snacks or goodness only knows what else whenever the fuck they want. You draw the line when you catch Snoop Dogg doing something obscene in the washroom.

The whale that swims around outside the bunker is an annoyance to you and a terror to 2D. It's some massive, swollen-headed, pallid thing with really bad teeth and yellowed, bloodshot eyes. It swims up to the porthole in the bunker's wall and sends 2D into hysterics, leaving him cowering on his belly up under the bed until it leaves. His fear of the thing, and whales in general, really, is a mystery to you, and apparently to him as well, because he's never able to give you a straight answer when you ask about it. All you know is that Murdoc is somehow paying it -- in cash, no less -- to keep guard and prevent his singer from escaping, not that it's done a very decent job of it.

There's not even a lot of privacy from 2D. Sure, he does his best to leave you to yourself, but given how cold it can get at night, the two of you find it easier to sleep together to conserve body heat and prevent dying of hypothermia. Originally, there had been a wall of pillows separating you from each other -- 2D had said it was a bit indecent to be sharing a bed with a woman when there weren't any physical relations between you -- but the very next morning after the barricade had been constructed it had been torn down and a rather warm body was pressed up against you, long skinny legs intertwined with yours and equally skinny arms keeping you pinned close. You don't mind much that he's an affectionate sleeper, but he certainly seems to, given that he immediately pulls away and rapid-fires apologies if and when he happens to wake up in the night. Or is it morning. You're almost not even sure when night and morning are anymore. Hours and seconds, days and night bleed together down here. The minutes tumble away and drag on all at once.

The washroom doesn't become any easier to use -- its small size makes that rather difficult, and all the bathing products are Old Spice (not that you mind that much any, at least 2D smells great when he's cuddled up against you in his sleep). The water still feels greasy, you still feel greasy, but it's slowly, very slowly, becoming more tolerable. At least the water's hot. Murdoc has also picked up the habit of sending you the cyborg's spare clothes, but you prefer 2D's. He doesn't wear ridiculously slutty-looking shorts and midriff-baring shirts, even if his taste in colors is a tad bright for your liking, and his underpants are pretty comfy, too.

All in all, it actually hasn't been that bad living in the bunker, and it would be even better if it weren't for Murdoc, though you're pretty sure it could probably wind up much worse later on down the road. 2D has actually agreed with you on this, adding in that if the food were better he could tolerate it a bit longer. As if the Man Upstairs is answering prayers, dinner that night turns out to be a rather fat still-flopping tilapia that isn't quite as suspicious as Thursday's cod. There is much rejoicing.

It isn't until you wake up one morning with 2D wrapped around you, face buried in your neck and mumbling softly in his sleep, that you realize a month has gone by already.


	3. Several Years of Bitter Mondays Take a Heavy Toll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You take back every thought you ever had about Murdoc ever maybe being something of a semi-decent person, wad them all up, and chuck them in the rubbish bin.

You take back every thought you ever had about Murdoc ever maybe being something of a semi-decent person, wad them all up, and chuck them in the rubbish bin.

Literally. You've been doing it for half an hour now, furiously scrawling things on a pad of Post-It notes until you have a small pile of them, stuffing them all into a wad, and chucking it into a rubbish bin in the corner of the bunker farthest from the bed. You won't be able to peel or squeeze or just generally touch lemons for a while, what with all the miniscule paper cuts on your hands. 2D is reclined on the bed behind you, whimpering and pressing some sort of raw cut of meat to his black eye. His arms are marked with brightly colored cartoony plasters covering up minor cuts and bruises, and you're pretty positive one of his ribs is at least bruised, if not fractured a bit.

You knew the interview was a bad idea. Murdoc's been in a foul drunken mood for days, snapping into a rage at any slight provocation and screaming at everything that moves. It was far worse earlier on, and he'd seemed to have mellowed out quite a bit by the time the news of the interview came round, but he was still quite inebriated and prone to raising Hell at any moment. 2D had also been in a rather bitter mood, having decided to completely forego taking his headache pills because he didn't like what they were doing to his head. (He was suspicious that Murdoc only sent them down to keep him compliant and ignorant and he was sick of being compliant and ignorant, and knowing Murdoc this was well likely in a realm of things he would do.) This resulted in full-force resurgence of his frequent migraines and often had him crouched over the toilet in the uncomfortably tiny washroom vomiting. When he wasn't getting sick and complaining about how the Advil you gave him didn't help much he was curled in a ball on the bed with the drapes on the porthole closed and the lights off. Neither of them was in good spirits and they still went through with the interview anyway, despite your warnings not to because you were certain it was going to go as horribly as it did.

That lady had been right there, she should have done something. But no, she sat there and droned on as if nothing that was happening was anything even slightly interesting, as if the sight of two grown men trying to tear each other apart (one more viciously than the other) wasn't enough to warrant some kind of mental alert that maybe she ought to try and separate them.

You hadn't actually seen the fighting yourself, only heard it. You hadn't been allowed in the radio broadcasting room where the interview was being held so you sat outside the door, waiting for the first sign of anything going wrong that would warrant you busting the door down and getting 2D out of there. Sadly, even once the real fighting and screaming and breaking of things had started, you still couldn't get in; all the doors and windows were locked. So you sat outside the door, quaking in anger and fear for poor 2D's life, helpless to do anything. At least once the interview ended you were able to snatch him up (throwing a look that could kill at Murdoc in the meantime) and get him to the relative safety of the bunker and pick out the little bits of broken glass and pottery embedded in his skin and get him somewhat patched up.

It's odd how protective you've become of him lately, out of the four or so months you've been living with him some hundred feet below sea level, if the little tally marks he makes on the wall every day are the only real indicator of the passage of time down here. You're not sure exactly why that is. Maybe you've just begun seeing him as someone who needs the protection, like some flightless baby bird that fell out of its nest. Maybe it's because he's started relying on you for it, probably not selfishly so but because he feels safe when you're around. Or maybe it's for some other reason entirely, you don't know. Either way you're there and taking care of him when he needs it most and no one else will give it to him much and that's enough for you both for now.

A slight shift in the mattress and an increase in heat against your back alert you to him rolling onto his side to face you with a wince as he removes the bloody slab of meat from his eye. It's still purple and gross-looking but the swelling's gone down a bit, at least. You put down the pad of Post-Its and lean over to brush his hair out of his face. It's getting a tad too long. You'll have to ask him if it's okay for you to give it a trim. He smells like sweat and fading adrenaline, and there's his signature sweet butterscotchy scent up underneath it all. "Doing okay?"

"Me? I-I've had worse, bruises like this, much worse, if you're worried 'bout that. Fink I'll be fine. Sore, but fine."

He feels warm. A bit too warm. You're not sure if it's anger-heat or fever-heat or just-laying-down-heat, but you're not taking any chances of it being possible fever. "Alright, but you're taking Tylenol tonight, you're feeling a bit too warm for my liking." Thankfully some of the collaborators have been kind enough to basically supply an entire medicine cabinet for you down here, for whatever might be needed because goodness knows Murdoc won't call a doctor out here.

He makes a face and a distressed sort of noise. "At least make it th' pill, not that syrup shit."

"I will if you don't complain about having to take it."

He nods, making a little noise as you run your fingers through his hair, something you've found he quite enjoys. Massaging his head helps with his migraines as well. You just have to remember to be gentle, he's seriously tender-headed. You help him sit up just long enough for him to get the Tylenol pills down without risking choking.

"Anything hurting? Besides what already hurts, I mean."

He shakes his head as he settles back down with a grimace, pressing his face against your hand. "Told you, I fink I'll be fine. Just need a little sleep."

Sleep would definitely help him, probably more than all the medicine and cartoon-covered plasters the Beach has to offer -- admittedly that's not very much. You settle yourself down on the mattress and lay there petting his head until his breathing evens out and turns into soft snores. Sleep doesn't seem like such a bad idea for yourself, either, with 2D curled against your side and the waves gently rocking the bunker back and forth and the usual bad smell of the Beach fading into nonexistence and your body suddenly giving in to complete and utter exhaustion. Up in the higher reaches of the island Murdoc is still shouting at someone, likely himself again in drunken confusion. But he's not your biggest concern right now. 2D's health is. Maybe things will be better in the morning.


	4. Because It's Just Another Reason Why a Fool Like You Would Listen to a Fool Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had never occurred to you that 2D’s mother had influenced him a bit with her nursing work, even going so far as to teach him basic procedures and letting him volunteer at the hospital she worked at in his youth, and of course spending so much of his life in and out of examining rooms and sterilized paper-thin bedsheets had probably taught him quite a bit as well.

Latex-sheathed fingers brush lightly over the skin of your back, cold metal bell pressing somewhere between your shoulder blades. You shiver at the contact.

“Too cold?” You mumble something along the lines of a response around the glass rod thermometer in your mouth and 2D blinks, withdrawing the stethoscope bell and cupping it in his hands, trying to warm it up a bit before returning it to your back. Bit better. A couple deep breaths on the receiving end, and the bell moves down and to the right a bit. Repeat.

It had never occurred to you that 2D’s mother had influenced him a bit with her nursing work, even going so far as to teach him basic procedures and letting him volunteer at the hospital she worked at in his youth, and of course spending so much of his life in and out of examining rooms and sterilized paper-thin bedsheets had probably taught him quite a bit as well. He had explained as much when he’d woken up with his fever gone and feeling much better, even if he was still limping, even if he was still more Bruise than Not Bruise, only to find that you were as hot and sweaty as he’d been merely hours before. He’d tugged out his old volunteer scrubs, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and started taking care of business. He is in no way a licensed doctor, which you are fairly certain is Very Illegal, or at least impersonating one is, but he’s the next best thing the Beach has and it’s not like anyone’s going to call the cops on him, certainly not you, definitely not you.

Besides, the contact and being fussed over like this for once feels kinda nice. You wonder if he has the same feeling when you’re fussing over him, fetching raw meat slabs for black eyes and patching up scratches with plasters and sometimes kissing little injuries just to satisfy that child-like mentality of that alone being able to take the pain away.

2D is quiet and methodical throughout the whole procedure, very gently pressing cold fingers against flesh and speaking only to ask if anything hurts. Nothing does, you just feel very overheated. It doesn’t stop him from turning his phone’s flashlight on and peering at your throat for any redness or swelling, though, from looking in your ears, from palpating your abdomen and neck. You sense he’s done when he finally sits down, plucks the thermometer from under your tongue and squints at the fine lines.

“I fink it says 101°, don’ go quotin’ me on that. Nuffin’ a cool shower an’ a nap in th’ dark can’ ‘elp, maybe an Advil or two or some Tylenol. ‘Swhat Mum used t’do for me.” He tugs the gloves off and tosses them into the rubbish bin, sets the stethoscope in a bureau drawer. “These sheets could prob’ly be washed too, while I’m finkin’ ‘bout it. Or jus’ replaced, maybe that would be better. G-go take your shower, I’ll take care of it.” He shooes you toward the washroom, hands you an old t-shirt and a pair of pyjama pants alongside a pair of boxers, starts stripping the rickety old bed of its sheets.

Who are you to argue with a sort-of nurse?

You don’t really bathe so much as sit there under the greasy lukewarm spray for no less than half an hour, though you do attempt to rid yourself of your sweat-stink with a little Old Spice Hawkridge body wash. Damn that Hawkridge, for smelling so sexy.

When you finally exit the sheets on the bed have been replaced with crisp clean white ones and a new set of blankets, and overall it looks like a slightly-less-old rickety old bed. 2D is sitting on its edge, no longer in his kind-of-ugly-salmon-pink scrubs, peeling yesterday’s plasters off his arms and slapping on new ones. He looks up at you and gives you a little smile, going to close the drapes on the porthole and turn the lights off as you crawl beneath the sheets. He settles beside you, not underneath the sheets but on top of them, and starts rubbing your back. You kind of wish he was up under the sheets with you but shit that feels good too.

“So what’s with all this?”

“Mm?” He props himself up on his elbows, wincing a little bit, and looks down at you, and you roll over to face him.

“I mean, taking care of me like this.”

“I jus’, you’ve been doin’ so much for me, I figured it was time I paid it back. Not fair if I’m th’ only one gettin’ attention, kinda felt guilty ‘bout it.” He’s silent for a moment. “Now that I fink ‘bout it, you kinda remind me of Paula in that regard. You really do. I never paid ‘er back for that…”

Paula. Paula Cracker? You know you’ve heard that name before. His old girlfriend right? Apparently some kind of berserk switch, given the commotion in the broadcasting room at the mere mention of her name and what had happened between her and Murdoc.

He continues on as if you’d asked him to continue even though you haven’t said anything.

“Yeah, she used t’do what you do, spent a lot of time takin’ care of me an’ all, when I needed it. At least, for a little bit, early on. Wasn’ long ‘til I caught ‘er messin’ ‘round wiff other guys, loads of times too, it wasn’ jus’ Murdoc she cheated on me wiff. She always started cryin’ an’ pleadin’ for me not to leave ‘er when I found ‘er doin’ stuff like that, an’ I never did. Man, I was stupid back then, lettin’ ‘er do that. I guess if it weren’ for Murdoc I woulda jus’ let ‘er keep on doin’ it, never sayin’ anyfin’ ‘bout it, always lettin’ ‘er come back for God knows ‘ow long.”

How in the entire goddamn multiverse would anyone ever cheat on this guy?

“Do you...do you miss her?”

He blinks down at you. “Sometimes I do. Right now I do. ‘S stupid, finkin’ like that after all this time. Can’ even remember what I saw in ‘er. I was such an idiot, guess I still am.”

“No, it’s not that stupid. What you did was probably pretty stupid, yes, but it just showed that you were loyal. If she couldn’t see that loyalty and repay it, then she had no business being with a guy like you, she didn’t deserve you, still doesn’t. There’s a big difference between being stupid and being an idiot, and you’re not an idiot.”

“Fink so?” He smirks a bit at you.

“Yeah. You’re just stupid.” He chuckles and swats at your arm. “But if it makes you feel any better I know I’ve done some really stupid things too, even if I can’t remember them at this current moment in time. It’s a fact of life, we all do stupid shit at some point. Some more than others, but it still happens.”

He chuckles again, slipping beneath the sheets and settling back down, starts rubbing your back again and damn, it feels good. “Not really, but fanks for tryin’. An’ fanks, for everyfin’ else too.”

You’re not really sure what you can say to that. What were you supposed to do all this time, let him suffer through it all on his own? That’s a severe violation of the Roommate Agreement (which admittedly is just a couple of suggestions not meant to really be taken seriously, a sort of _I defend you if you defend me, no man or woman left behind_ type dealio, scrawled on a pair of Post-It notes with a dulled, broken green crayon and signed in leaky red pen to look like an official blood oath simply because that sort of thing seemed like a cool idea in theory but you were both too squeamish to carry out the practice). Nothing really needs to be said anyway. Gratitude is best felt and percieved, not spoken. It’s easy to tell when words may be lying, but emotions and feelings are hard to replicate so seamlessly.

You’re pretty much half-asleep when he speaks up again, barely above a whisper, his hand having stopped rubbing your back and choosing to settle on your hip instead.

“Still awake?”

“Kinda. Why?”

“‘S jus’, still can’ ‘elp but feel like I owe you. I can’ ‘elp it, ‘s ‘ow I was raised.”

“And this can’t wait until after my nap? You could probably use one, too, you look tired.”

“It prob’ly could, but I know I’ll ‘ave forgotten what it was by th’ time you wake up.” You don’t doubt that, not at all.

“Okay, then, shoot.”

“A-are you in any way opposed t’ s-sexual favors?”

You shrug. It may be the perpetual amnesia talking, but you’re also pretty certain you’ve never had sex. Pretty sure. You tell him so. “Why? Is that what you had in mind, some kind of friends-with-benefits thing?”

“Depends, do you mind?”

“I’m not opposed, per se.”

“Okay, jus’, jus’ wonderin’. Don’ wanna push any boundaries, if you don’ want me to.” His hand is fidgeting, likely out of nervousness, cold fingertips dancing over the skin of your hip where they’ve barely slipped beneath the waistband of your -- his -- pants.

You’re still sleepy, but your curiosity is piqued. Dammit Curiosity Cat, don’t die this time. “How good are you?”

“‘Ow good am I?”

“Yeah, I mean, how are you at that sort of thing. One of those things you have to consider. If you’re good at it, I’d be a bit more willing than if you were bad at it.”

He shrugs. “I ‘ave eleven bastards, why not do th’ math?”

“Doesn’t mean you’re necessarily good at it, you just know your way around. And eleven, really?”

“One of ‘em ‘ad twins, I fink. I ran into ‘em in Nottin’am one time. She’d given ‘em up t’ some little couple down the street ‘oo couldn’ have kids. Cute little tykes, too. ‘Slike damn, ‘ow’d you spawn from my balls?”

“How’d you know they were yours?”

“Blue ‘air.”

“Right, right. Anyway, I think I’ll be the judge of your skills myself.”

“So you wanna do it?”

“Maybe just test it out, for now. And if you really feel like you owe me that badly, there’s not much I can do to stop you, I guess. But keep it simple for now. N-no crotch-to-crotch sort of mess.”

“Sure, sure. I was intendin’ t’do that anyway. No rubbers down ‘ere, don’ want anymore kids right now.”

2D presses a bit closer, arms encircling your waist as his lips press against the cushion of muscle between your neck and shoulder (good spot, if he leaves a mark it won’t be so easy to catch sight of), cold fingers slipping beneath your shirt and dancing over the skin of your belly, dragging toward your hips as he kisses and lightly sucks that one patch of skin. The same featherlight little touches you’d been subject to earlier during your examination (one only in the absolute loosest sense of the term) are in effect now, leaving icy little trails on your flesh and making you shiver at the chill and light contact. He’s being quiet with this, just like he was earlier, taking his time, making sure to linger just a tad longer over any one spot he touches that elicits little noises you don’t really try to hide.

He is good at this. Note to self: take up on his offer as often as you can without sounding like a needy whore.

His hands slip beneath the waistband of your -- his -- boxers, linger over your hips for a moment and dip down a bit lower to stroke your thighs, pushing the fabric of your -- his -- pants and underwear down with them until they hit your ankles, trailing back up your calves and moving inward all at the exact same slow pace. His lips trail upward, mouthing softly at the side of your neck. Fuck, he’s gentle. He’s being so gentle, so very gentle. You have a feeling that would change if you wanted him to, if you asked him to go faster, be rougher, but no, you’re going to sit and enjoy this soft loving treatment. Hell, you may even have to repay him for this.

Large hands massage the soft skin of your inner thighs, creeping upward slowly, pushing your legs apart enough that he has access to do what he needs but nowhere near so much that it hurts your joints to do so. Cold fingers meet uncharted territory, flesh that you yourself have hardly ever dared explore, not that you can remember, anyway. The volume and number of little noises you make increases as he strokes and teases, gently rubbing against searing slick heat and touching nerves that send bolts of electricity up your spine, make you arch into him. One thin finger presses in, then another once you’ve adjusted, pumping in and out and curling within while his thumb continues stroking your more external areas. When his fingers brush against one particular spot you gasp and arch your back and he curls them again. A few more repeats of that and a particularly lengthy stroke of his thumb and you find yourself a sweating exhausted heap of flesh and bone on the bed. A spicy sort of smell, like fresh-cut cedar wood, hangs heavy in the bunker. He withdraws his hand, tugs your -- his -- pants and boxers back up to settle around your hips again. Nice of him. He gets up to go wash his hands and returns within moments, slipping back under the sheets with you.

“So I’m guessin’ I did well?”

You turn to face him, and he looks a bit smug, but adorably so, like it’s meant to be smug and he just can’t manage to pull it off.

“Very. I wouldn’t mind doing that again sometime. Not now, though, I’m tired and I want to sleep.”

“Okay.” He wraps his arms around you, tugs you close, presses his lips to your forehead. “But before you do that, would you maybe like to…”

“Maybe like to what?”

“Be more than friends-wiff-benefits. If, if you want, I mean.”

“You mean like, try dating?”

“Yeah. In a really weird twisted sense ‘cause of this soddin’ island, but yeah.”

You don’t really see any reason not to at least try it out.

Even if it means loads of David Bowie and Buzzcocks and really cheesy slasher films.


	5. I Think I'm Falling in Love With the Picture of Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re awoken by the sound of the washroom door being violently torn open and almost-instantaneous retching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just fluffy stuff this time. And a happy belated 38th birthday to 2D. I was going to publish this one on the 23rd, but I had a hard time getting my muse going and rewrote this one chapter maybe four or five times. It sucks, not having a muse. It sucks and no one understands.

You’re awoken by the sound of the washroom door being violently torn open and almost-instantaneous retching. 2D isn’t there in bed with you. Logic tells your sleep-addled mind he’s the one in the bathroom getting sick so early in the morning and he probably needs assistance or comfort or something.

You’re there for the worst of it, brushing his hair back out of his face and rubbing his back as he coughs and burps and retches amidst whimpers, scrunched up in the small space and hanging uncomfortably over the toilet. Both of you are trying to ignore the mess. When he finishes with a half-strangled sob you lead him over to the sink, ask if anything’s hurting, check for fever as he rinses his mouth. He mumbles something about his head hurting again. Migraine. Gotcha.

You slip back out of the washroom for a moment to make sure the lights are off and the curtains on the porthole are drawn, take a moment to fluff the pillows a bit. The room is lit a dark, deep blue with heavily-filtered moonlight, not near-pitch like you would prefer it to be but nothing too bright that will bother him at least. You guide him back to bed, settle him down on cooled sheets, and retrieve an Advil and a soda of some kind from a cooler in the corner near the medicine cabinet. 2D winces and blinks.

“Izzit diet?”

“No. I thought it might help settle your stomach a bit. Maybe help ease your headache too, until the pill kicks in. Y’know, kill two birds with one stone.”

“Good. I ‘ate the diet stuff. Tastes nasty.” He sits up, gulps once to make sure the pill goes down without winding up a bitter partially-dissolved mess on his tongue, then sips at the can cautiously, almost as if too much too quickly will make him sick again. You doubt it but it could happen. He settles back down with a groan and you sit next to him on top of the covers; he immediately snuggles as close to you as the blanket barrier will allow, pressing his face into your neck and grasping one of your small hands in his slender fingers.

“Want a little music playing? Might help you sleep that headache off.”

His voice has grown small when he answers, fragile. It sounds more like the fever kind of small voice but you can only attribute it to his headache given that he wasn’t feeling warm when you checked earlier. “Yes please.”

“David Bowie, Breaking Benjamin, Sex Pistols, whatever you want. Or do you want me to surprise you?”

He lifts his head for a moment and blinks up at you. “David Bowie.”

“Any song in particular?”

“‘Space Oddity,’ or ‘Ziggy Stardust,’ don’ matter which.” He tucks his head back where it was before, mumbling a soft “please” against your neck.

You pluck his iPod from the bedside table, turn on “Space Oddity,” and turn the volume down, enough that he can still hear it but it won’t make his headache any worse. He hums softly as Bowie starts crooning in that gorgeous voice he has and you run your fingers through his hair and along his scalp and the nape of his neck.

“Mind if I cut your hair later? It’s getting a bit long.”

“Sure.”

“Maybe we’ll do it outside, too, see if we can find your hair in any bird nests in a few days or so.”

“Mm. I remember when Mum used t’do that. It was fun, findin’ those little curls in the nests. I’d very much like that, fank you.” After a moment he lifts his head again. “Should I maybe, y’know, fank you for all this?”

“Not right now. You’re not feeling well. Just let the pill do its healy thing and sleep it off and we’ll discuss it when you’re feeling better.”

He nods and tucks his head back into the crook of your neck. “Okay. Jus’ wonderin’.”

“That’s alright. Maybe tonight, if you’re feeling up to it.”

He nods again, purrs a little against your neck when your fingers slip down past the collar of his shirt a bit and rub gently at his shoulders. “‘Ey.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I. Can I ‘ug you?”

It’s adorable how he still has to ask to hug you and kiss you anywhere besides your face, about a month and a half after you first started dating, even though you’ve long since told him he doesn’t need your consent for little things like that, even if he’s just being polite by asking. He started out asking for permission for everything, from hand-holding to asking if you’re okay with oral sex -- which you very much enjoyed, he’s quite talented with his tongue -- but now he at least can hold hands with you without needing to ask and kiss your face whenever he pleases. It’s adorable and gentlemanly and you do love him for little things like that.

You smile and nod and slip up under the covers and he latches on, nuzzling your neck, even as he winces at another surge of pain that you massage his temples for, even as he grasps at your hand and squeezes the living essence out of it at a particularly violent spasm. Eventually his breathing evens out into soft little snores, quiet enough that you wouldn’t hear them if you weren’t paying attention, and he’s still holding your hand even as he drifts off to sleep.

For once the whole Beach seems at a relatively perfect peace. No Murdoc smashing things and yelling about nothing. No collaborators ducking in to use the toilet. No whale swimming around outside and distressing 2D -- or if it is outside you can’t hear it. Just 2D asleep and the island uncharacteristically quiet and David Bowie crooning sweetly and the gentle push of the waves rocking the bunker.

It’s nice. Or at least it would be if you weren’t still aware of the fact that yes, you are being held prisoner, a relatively comfortable prisoner but you are still a prisoner, and there’s no hope of leaving anytime soon.

You don’t even realize that you’d fallen asleep until there’s an insistent pounding on the door that can’t be anyone but Murdoc that wakes you up. 2D groans next to you and buries his head under the covers as Murdoc asserts his authority by coming in anyway and throwing a hard flat Something onto the bedspread. When you pick it up you realize it’s the final product of what they’ve been working on for so long, the new album.

“Thought you two might want a copy or summat, don’ really care if you do or don’, you’re gettin’ it anyway. Already got th’ retailers takin’ preorders, should be ‘ittin’ shelves in a couple weeks. Might work on another after this one, dunno yet.” Announcement done, he shoves the door back into place and locks it again.

That was literally thirty seconds of your life you’ll never get back.

2D peeks his head out. “Is ‘e gone?”

“Yeah, and we got a free album to boot. He said he might want another release after this one, though. Sorry.”

He groans again and flops back down.

“Feeling better?”

“Kinda, yeah, in th’ ‘ead at least.”

“Good enough. Well, from what I can see your day is free. No more recording sessions for a while.”

“True.”

“Won’t have to worry about Murdoc so much anymore. Not for a while, anyway.”

“True.”

“Let’s go give your hair a trim and we can discuss the sexy thing.”

He yawns and nods. “Okay.”

Having Murdoc let you out surprisingly takes almost no convincing at all, maybe he’s just happy that the album’s finally done and has decided to be a tad kinder in retrospect, but he does have the cyborg keep guard outside, probably just to keep either of you from escaping or to keep away the choppers that have been accosting the island for the past few weeks. You sadly do not have a chair or barstool or something similar for 2D to sit on or anything to cover his shoulders with so his hair doesn’t get all over him, so you both hunker down on the slightly-more-comfortable, if slightly-more-disgusting, part of the island, squirming in ruined oil-stained pants (which you shed later because there’s no point in wearing them, and because not having pants without not having a shirt feels awkward you take that off as well) and scratching at wherever hair happens to land. 2D sneezes almost every couple of minutes or so and you have to make sure you don’t accidentally cut off more than you mean to when his head jerks. But his mane is eventually tamed and the two of you sit there because hell, it’s actually a pretty nice day out, or at least it would be if it didn’t smell like a landfill, picking up fine damp curls of bright blue hair and throwing them into the wind, clapping at the seabirds that catch them in midair. Lucky birds. They can’t smell the stink of this place. But the sun is warm, the breeze feels nice, and bad smell aside you feel like you could curl up for a nap.

Which is exactly what you wind up doing and regret deeply when you wake up, exposed skin seared bright red and in pain. 2D, who has been snuggled next to you in an equal state of undress the entire time, isn’t looking much better. It hurts to touch anywhere, it hurts to touch each other, it hurts to limp back into the neck of the island to try and find aloe gel because it’s the one thing your bunker medicine cabinet lacks. Murdoc cackles when he spies you.

“I should jus’ tell ya t’ suffer through it, if you weren’ smart enough t’ remember suncream. I should. But I won’. ‘M not that mean.” He does tease you by playing keep-away with the bottle before he finally hands it over. He looks you over again, then forks over another one. “Ya might need it. An’ take a shower ‘fore ya do, th’ water might draw some of th’ ‘eat out.”

You’re not sure if he’s geniually trying to be nice because he’s happy about the album or if he’s busting your chops just because he can, because the shower hurts almost as much as the sunburn, but the pain has alleviated just a tad when you finally pat yourself dry.

“N-no sexy thing tonight,” 2D declares the minute you start trying to rub the aloe gel on his red shoulders, wincing and hissing all the way through it. “Don’ think we could ‘andle it.”

“Agreed.” It takes nearly thirty minutes and three-quarters of a bottle of gel to rub him down and nearly as long for him to do the same for you. It’s agony, and though the coolness of the bunker and the gel are starting to help relieve the pain it’s going to suck being alive for the next several days. It hurts just to lay down, hurts to cuddle (and it’s very sticky besides), hurts to pull up the thinnest sheets, and somehow, though you’re not sure how, sleep still manages to find you and make peace.


	6. Another World Where the Sun Always Shines and the Birds Always Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither of you is sure where the fever came from or what caused it or what it wants but it sure as heck ain’t leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluff. Sorry this one took so long, we went on vacation in Florida for about a week and when we got back I had a hard time getting my muse going, so I've been writing one-shots. Pretty sure I can get at least one of the half-decent ones posted later tonight.

Neither of you is sure where the fever came from or what caused it or what it wants but it sure as heck ain’t leaving.

When 2D gets it he vomits once, falls asleep, and recovers in a matter of hours, perfectly fine, if a bit hungry. No shakes, no chills, very little dehydration or hunger loss. When you get it the next day you vomit twice -- would be four times if you actually had anything left in your system, sleep in sweating, shaking fits over a period of several hours, complain one minute that it’s too hot and the very next that it’s too cold, and when you do sleep 2D claims you cry out for people -- for those he can only assume to be your family though you can’t remember their names when awake, for him mostly. He’s in a panic, calling his mother and Googling the symptoms for even a general diagnosis so he can be assured whether it’s deadly or not, calling the cyborg down and politely instructing her to fetch him things -- usually drinks or ice packs or more blankets, sitting there on the bed constantly checking your vitals and forking over plenty of fluids and continually reassuring you that everything is okay and that you just need to sleep it off even though his tone isn’t reassuring at all and it’s actually worrying you. He’s far too nervous and it worries you.

Sleep is full of all sorts of odd terrors for you: old memories full of nameless people whose faces you can’t clearly discern, recurring nightmares that have become more and more frequent over the past weeks, each time more vivid and lifelike, old horror movie clips playing in your head like pieces of heavy metal music videos from the ‘80s. You don’t really bother questioning it because dreams are just weird like that sometimes. Your body may be sleeping but your brain is wide awake and just won’t quit doing whatever the hell it’s doing that’s keeping you from sleeping soundly.

When you wake next it’s to a splitting headache that makes it hurt to try to open your eyes, so you keep them closed and just lay there. You can hear voices, shuffling noises that you can assume are from 2D trying to put things back in order, mingled with a background of creeping guitars and violins and whispered vocals from the iPod on the bedside table. Murdoc’s voice rings loud and clear and makes your skull ache more.

“Give me one good reason t’bring ‘er along. ‘Snot like she does anythin’ productive ‘round ‘ere.”

“She needs a doctor. A proper one, not jus’ some guy ‘oo can take a temperature an’ maybe draw blood sometimes wiffout gettin’ squeamish. An’ she needs ‘er own clothes, too, not my ‘and-me-downs.” 2D sounds tired, on the verge of letting loose in a fit of anger. They must have been going at whatever this is for a while.

Murdoc grumbles something. “Still don’ see why you’re attached t’ this chick. You don’ know nothin’ ‘bout ‘er.”

“When’s that mattered t’you?” There’s a bitter, chilling tone creeping in. It’s a voice you’re not used to hearing coming from 2D and it scares you. “Since when did you give a damn?”

“Jus’ sayin’. For all you know she could be a -- what is this bullshit playin’? It’s depressin’.”

“‘Lullaby.’ The Cure. I fought it might ‘elp ‘er sleep.”

“Shit’s creepy as fuck, ‘oo could sleep listenin’ t’ that? Anyway, for all you know she could be a whore, or usin’ you for sex. It’ll be the whole Paula Cracker thing all over again.”

There’s a sudden resounding smack on skin on skin, a heavy thud and a grunt from Murdoc. You manage to crack an eye open enough to see Murdoc sprawled on the floor, a large red handprint on his cheek and blood welling along scratches where 2D’s nails must have caught him. He looks both taken aback and about to unleash a fury all his own.

2D, on the other hand, looks completely and utterly exhausted and he looks like a bit of a dork in his salmon-pink scrubs, but his dark eyes are bright with an angry fire you’ve never seen from him before. When he speaks again there’s no warmth left in his voice, it’s nothing but ice. And it’s quiet, dangerously quiet. “If she’s a whore, she’s th’ best damn whore I ever ‘ad the pleasure o’ meetin’, an’ one better than Paula ever was. Get out.”

Murdoc is still staring up at him, ignoring the blood tracing his jawline and making marks on the floor, seemingly at a loss of what to do.

“Did you not ‘ear me, or did I not ‘it you ‘ard enough? Get. OUT.”

Murdoc scrabbles to his feet and shuffles toward the door, then breaks into a panic and slams it shut, firmly locking it behind him. 2D sighs heavily and slumps. He looks far older than he really is now. That must have taken a lot out of him. He turns toward the bed and sighs again when he sees you awake, shuffling over and sitting down with you. “‘Ow much of that did you ‘ear?” His voice is thawing already. Good. You don’t think you’d be able to put up with his anger, not right now, not when you’re like this.

“Enough, but not enough to know what’s going on.”

2D stands to grab the thermometer and place it under your tongue. “‘E came down ‘ere spoutin’ off about some world tour we’re supposed t’be goin’ on in a few months, an’ I asked if we could take you wiff us instead of leavin’ you ‘ere. Told ‘im I wasn’t gonna leave you ‘ere, not if there was a chance you could get sick like this again wiff no one ‘ere to take of you. Really set ‘im off.” He takes the glass rod out of your mouth and squints at it. “Great, your fever’s goin’ down. Finally. First good news all day. Anyfin’ ‘urtin’?”

“Just my head.”

He mumbles something under his breath and fetches you the water glass on the table, struggles with the child safety lock on the Advil cap before handing you one of the little pink pills. “Really, though. This place ain’ good for you, not one bit. You need proper care, not some firty-year-old man ‘oo hardly knows what the fuck ‘e’s doin’.”

“You could probably use one too.”

“Yeah, but I’m used t’ this kinda fing, gettin’ sick all the time, bein’ stuck down ‘ere, mostly gettin’ sick. You’re not.”

Hard evidence to ignore.

“I’m proud of you though.”

“Mm?”

“You just slapped him right in the face and told him off. You wouldn’t have done that six months ago.”

“Yeah.” He sniggers. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Sniggers dissolve into chuckles.

You’re not sure what he finds so funny about it but you can’t help laughing with him.

“Yeah, I mean, I fink I jus’ cost us a week’s worff of dinners wiff that stunt, but it was totally worff it.” He giggles, falls back on the bed. “It felt good.”

“Keep that up and he won’t be able to boss you around anymore, not easily anyway.” You wince from a painful throb in your skull and he gently pushes you back down into the pillows.

“Need anyfin?”

“Dude, the only thing I need right now is for you to chill the fuck out and maybe snuggle with me a bit. You’re starting to scare me with how much of a mother hen you’ve become.”

“I-I can do that. I can do that. I fink the worst of it’s over anyway.” He curls up against your back, hugging you close. “By the way, Murdoc brought a box of rubbers down ‘ere. ‘M not sure if we can trust ‘em or not.”

“Lemme see the box.” He digs around in the bedside table drawer and hands you the box. It’s a bit dented but it’s perfectly sealed, no tears or holes in the packaging. “I think they’re safe. And are these the…?”

“Yes. They glow in the dark.” He sounds ashamed.

You don’t know why you find this so funny.


	7. Spiderman is Having Me for Dinner Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Still don’ see why we can’ just strap ‘er up on the rack, or toss ‘er in a suitcase or some shit,” Murdoc grumbles to himself, clearly talking about you, as he shoves various boxes full of stuff and the drum machine aside to make room for you in the back of the tour bus. You’re somewhere in the States, somewhere warm with a nice breeze and a bit of a smell, but it does smell better than the Beach. Air’s much cleaner, too. “Waste of space, really. Leaves less room fer the drum machine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, here's Chapter Seven!
> 
> I'm so sorry about this one taking so damn long, so you all get a special present from me for being so patient: Gratuitous Smut!
> 
> Seriously, half this chapter is just sex.
> 
> Bit of dirty talk, too, as an added bonus.
> 
> And some of that dirty talk may eventually become a stand-alone spin-off fic all on it's own, if you guys are real good...
> 
> I felt so filthy writing even the thought of it, like, geez, tone down. Settle down, Beevis. Think about Jesus.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Mentions of suicidal thoughts about a third of the way through.

“Still don’ see why we can’ just strap ‘er up on the rack, or toss ‘er in a suitcase or some shit,” Murdoc grumbles to himself, clearly talking about you, as he shoves various boxes full of stuff and the drum machine aside to make room for you in the back of the tour bus. You’re somewhere in the States, somewhere warm with a nice breeze and a bit of a smell, but it does smell better than the Beach. Air’s much cleaner, too. “Waste of space, really. Leaves less room fer the drum machine.”

“Stow your gob, old man. She’s back ‘ere wiff me.” 2D sounds old and exhausted, looks old and exhausted, as he helps you into the back of the bus. You’ve caught him trying to pluck early white hairs already. He’s barely past thirty and he’s already going white. If that doesn’t scream stress and anxiety it needs to scream louder. “An’ don’ you ‘ave sumfin’ t’give ‘er any’ow?”

Murdoc rolls his eyes, grumbles something under his breath, digs around in his pocket and shoves a slightly-abused plastic slip on a lanyard into your chest. “Figured since you were already fuckin’ my singer I may as well promote you to ‘onorary roadie status. That’s only temporary. An’ don’ expect any special treatment fer it.”

2D tucks in tight next to you as Murdoc shuts the door, enveloping the back of the bus in near-complete darkness, and crawls into the driver’s seat.

“I thought he was given a court order not to drive any sort of vehicle on any road anywhere ever again.”

“Oh, ‘e was. ‘E just don’ give a fuck is all.” 2D’s flipped open an old GameBoy SP and started a new save file on _Pokemon Blue_. The light makes you both squint a bit. “‘Ow do I do this Pokemoning fing again? Ain’ done this since Noodle left.”

“It’s pretty simple. All the dialogue should tell you where you need to go. And if you can’t get past a certain spot it means you’re not ready for that area yet.”

“So I can’ cross the sea ‘ere until I get further on?”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Poo.” He does sit playing contentedly with the game for a while with you tucked under his arm, and the little blips and bloops and synthesized noises of the creatures’ cries are somewhat comforting.

Up to a point.

And that point is when you become incredibly bored.

“What does Murdoc even need all these boxes for anyway? Is there merch in there, CDs, his sweater collection?” 2D shrugs and lets you wriggle out from under his arm, shines the GameBoy’s light down on one box as you open it. Something inside squirms, and there’s a chorus of high-pitched screams from someone as you struggle to get the slimy thing trying to get its Whatevers around your neck back in the box.

“Let’s not ever open that one again.” 2D pants in agreement. Murdoc shouts something you can’t quite make out from the front of the bus.

“What?”

“I said if you’re ‘avin’ a fuck back there kindly keep it the fuck down!”

“We weren’t!”

“Really?”

“Yeah!”

“Good, it can wait for the ‘otel, where I don’ ‘ave t’ ‘ear it.”

“It’s not like we have the room back here anyway,” you mumble.

“Eh, we ‘ave a little room.”

“Not enough room to be comfortable.”

“Okay, true.” He goes back to his game again with you snuggled against him, only to be pitched across the bus floor by a sudden sharp turn. You just barely manage to steel yourself in time. “Wot the bloody flippin’ ‘ell, Murdoc?” he whines as he picks himself up, rubbing his face where it landed on the floor. He pockets his game and you go back to looking in boxes.

“Sweaters, newspaper, boxes of licorice whips, something that looks like a human heart in a jar…”

“Ew.”

“I think it’s still beating too.”

“Double ew.”

“Wanna see it?”

“Yes please.”

“Ooh, there’s Murdoc’s fake IDs and arrest warrants in this one.”

“What’s ‘e been arrested for?”

“Arson, theft, trying to pass off counterfeit bills, graverobbing, first degree homicide, and...walking around on a Sunday with an ice cream in his pocket while wearing slippers after 10 PM in New York.”

“I didn’ fink a person could be arrested for wearin’ slippers after 10.”

“Apparently they can in New York. And there are others that are just as ridiculous. Throwing a ball at someone’s head for fun -- New York. Playing dominoes on Sunday -- Alabama. Deflowering a virgin in Auburn, Alabama -- apparently he served three years for that one, don’t see how or why, what kind of law is that? Fishing from horseback in Utah. Shooting any wild game excepting whales from a moving vehicle in Tennessee. Does he deliberately look up stupid laws when he travels and break them in plain view of authorities to see if they’re legit?”

“Wouldn’ surprise me.”

“I do, in fact!”

“We weren’t asking you, Murdoc!” You go back to sifting through boxes for something equally interesting and find nothing.

“I’ll be so glad t’finally sleep in a real bed again.”

“True that.”

“Real food.”

“Yes.”

“No bad smells.”

“Not likely, but okay.”

“Best part, no Murdoc. At least, not as much of ‘im.”

“Amen.”

2D’s quiet for a moment, knees tucked up against his chest. “Y’know, I should probably fank you. Not jus’ for stayin’, but even arrivin’ on the Beach in the first place. Even if you didn’ mean to.”

“Why? What are you getting at?”

He looks shifty. “Um, back a couple months ‘fore you came, I had...started considerin’...erm…”

You think you know exactly what he’s talking about. “You can’t be serious.”

“I didn’ mean to, okay? I just remember tryin’ to make it off the Beach in this little dinghy I found, an’ when the cyborg shot it I jus’ felt like it’d be great to jus’ let myself drown, end everyfin’. ‘Course, Murdoc wouldn’ let me, not that time an’ not any time after that, but I kept tryin’. I figured if I couldn’ get off the Beach, I… I kept a gun down there.”

“No.”

“Strapped up under the bed, in case I ever fought I would need it. ‘Snot there anymore, don’ worry. But I fink Murdoc knew what I was up to. Fink that’s why he sent you down t’me instead of keepin’ you for himself, t’keep me from doin’ it.” He sighs, deep and heavy. “I feel like I need t’be baptized.”

“If that’s what you think you need, you go somewhere and you get that done as soon as you can.”

“Fanks.” He presses against you, tucking his face against your shoulder. “‘Ow much longer is this damned ride?”

“No idea. May as well try to sleep while you can.”

“Only if you try too.”

He blinks up at you and offers a weary little grin, snuggling up against your side and ensconcing you in his long limbs. It’s a warm sort of little cocoon that’s not exactly the most comfortable, but it’s more than enough to try to sleep.

The first thing 2D does upon unlocking the door to your shared hotel room is flop down on the bed with a groan of relief. No matter that he rolls off it almost immediately and it really isn’t the most comfortable bed in the world but damn, it’s better than what the Beach had. It’s kind of what you get for Murdoc renting the cheapest rooms for you in every hotel he’d booked. Cheapskate. But it’s more than good enough for now. Even if he did take the best stuff for himself. At least this room’s fairly clean.

2D seems a lot happier, more playful, now that he’s out of the bunker and he’s taken a load off his chest and he’s finally clean for the first time in well over a year; he’s looking less old and more like the happy twenty-year-old the world fell in love with ten years ago. Even if the water is hard and full of minerals, it’s better than what the Beach had by a longshot and he pounces on you before you can really even dry off after you’ve showered, nipping and kissing and happily sucking beads of water from every inch of your skin he can get his mouth on. You barely even notice he didn’t even bother getting dressed, hardly care that he has to dig around in his jeans for the many condoms he’s stuck in his pockets, hardly care that he’s taking you right there on the bathroom floor, then against the wall of the bedroom, then on the bed, just about anywhere you both can fit comfortably actually, because dammit, you’re feeling pretty fucking chipper yourself and you feel like you both kind of deserve this after enduring that bunker for so long, just a chance to let loose and enjoy what freedom you have for now to its full extent because you both know it won’t last long.

It’s late by the time you’re both finally worn out, bodies marked in soft lovebites that won’t last to morning, still burning nice and hot in the afterglow, exhausted but oh so incredibly satisfied. Now if Murdoc would just leave you two alone for the rest of your lives and you never have to go back to that Beach ever again everything will be perfect.

You’re tucked up against 2D and he’s still very gently running his hands over your body and through your hair and murmuring soft, simple, sweet nothings and kissing every inch of your face. The kind of loving treatment you need but never feel you really deserve, even if he’s always sure to make you feel like you deserve every bit of it.

“This, this is nice.”

“Mmhm.”

“No Murdoc, no whale, no bloody Beach. Not for a good while anyway.”

“Amen.”

“Praise Jehovah.”

“Hosanna in the highest!”

He snorts and giggles and kisses you, cups your face and runs his hands through your hair. “Fuck, I love you. I mean that. I really do.”

“I’m glad you mean it. It’d be kind of hard to take back all the sex we just had if you didn’t.”

He snorts again and moves to your neck, nibbling softly at your throat and rutting his pelvis against yours. “Yeah, yeah it would be.”

“Ready to go again? Wow, how many times will that make it tonight?”

“I’unno, I stopped countin’ after eight.” He purrs, nipping at your collarbone. “Y’know what I wanna do?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Referrin’ more t’what I wanna do to you, though.”

“Mm, I see. Is it dirty?”

“I fink ’s dirty. Dirty t’me, anyway.” His mouth keeps trailing downward, sucking at little sensitive spots on your breasts and belly until he’s gently nibbling at your hipbones.

“Do please tell.”

“Mm, y’know the dressin’ rooms? Backstage?”

“Yeah.”

“Y’know that big vanity they got in there, wiff the big mirror?” His lips trail along your inner thighs, suckling softly.

“Yes I do.”

“Mm, I wanna take you in there.”

“Okay.”

“Like, in fron’ of that big mirror, strip you naked, like unwrappin’ a gift box, y’know?”

“Go on.” This is already quite a turn-on in and of itself and his breath ghosting so dangerously close to your sex isn’t helping keep it under control.

“Maybe set you up on that vanity, yeah, facing the mirror, maybe pressed up ‘gainst it, all nice an’ ready for me, wantin’ me.”

“I’m wanting you right now.”

He chuckles softly, purrs, runs his tongue everywhere except where it’ll feel so good it’ll hurt. “Mm, but I wanna take you on that vanity, make you watch me fuck you so ‘ard you’ll feel me for a week.”

“Mm, sounds lovely. But you know what the best part’ll be?”

“Mm, what?” He drags his tongue slowly up along your sex while he’s giving you this _look_ and you keen, loudly, unashamed.

“Making you watch me watching you fuck me, knowing you’re the one doing that, making me feel good in that special way you do. Knowing that’s your cock pleasing me and no one else’s, and never has been and never will be anyone else’s.”

A predatory grin flashes for a fraction of a second before he dive-bombs you and you nearly scream, planting your face into the pillow to prevent waking the rest of the hotel, curling your fingers into his hair and tugging sharply enough to make him snarl. “ _Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit._ ”

The purr in his throat is more like the growl of some kind of wild animal as he sucks and licks and bites (not hard enough to hurt) at his chosen prey, adding more to the topic between administrations. “Mm, I’ll do ya one better, do it doggy-style. Get one o’them studded rubbers, you like those, don’ you?”

“Oh _fuck yes._ ”

“Maybe throw a collar an’ a leash in, maybe some ‘andcuffs or a nice necktie. Or maybe we could play doctor, you _really_ like that, don’ you? Like it when I fuck you in my scrubs.”

At this point you feel like you’ll explode if you say a single word. He notices, swipes his tongue over your clit, sucks on it hard as he presses a pair of fingers into you, pumping fast. “Wha’ wazzat, love? Can’ ‘ear you.”

The coil in your stomach’s wound so tight it hurts.

“Mm, I know ‘ow t’fix that.” Everything suddenly stops, his fingers frozen and buried up to the knuckle inside you, cold thumb twisted and pressing down hard on your clit. His free hand crawls upward and cups your breast, rubbing your nipple to a hard bud between his chilly fingers as he leans in next to your ear. “Jus’ say the word an’ I’ll let you go. Any little word’ll do.”

Damn, when did 2D become so manipulative?

Better yet, when did it become so _sexy_?

You whine into the pillow and glance at him. The predator look is gone, he’s all warm hollow eyes and a soft smile as his free hand comes up and strokes your cheek. The intermingling of a hot sex and chilled hand between your legs is becoming too much to bear.

Finally, not much more than a whisper, you choke out, “ _Please._ ”

And he lets you go, eases on his quick pace until it’s slow and soft as he curls his fingers and gives a soft rub of his thumb on your clit and brings you to a mind-numbing release and eases you down from your high, withdrawing his hand when you finally stop quivering. He’s pressed up against your hip and hard as can be, but when he makes a move you stop him, gently push his hand away. “Let me take care of this. Only fair.”

He shrugs and folds his arms behind his back.

You take him in your hand -- he’s quite thick, about average length, and fairly smooth aside from a nice vein along the underside. Plus, circumcised. Most definitely born Jewish.

He keens and pants and bucks into your hand as you pump him slow and steady, pay extra attention to his head and that nice vein on his underside. He whines as you take him into your mouth after a moment, curls his fingers into your hair a bit more gently than you did to his, tugs on your head as you take as much of him in as you can, fingers servicing what can’t fit. He throbs against your tongue but he still pulls your head away, pulls you into a lip-bruising kiss as you pluck a condom from his discarded pants and roll it onto him, sling a leg over his hip and sheathe him inside.

2D groans and arches into you, panting as he tilts your head back and attacks your neck and collarbone, kissing and biting at false bruises made earlier on in the day as his hips collide with yours. His pace is erratic, not like the smooth, slow thrusting you typically experience. Hot breath on your neck and face and chest, heat coiled in the pit of your gut, heat pulsating and throbbing inside you, cold hands gripping at your back and hips and upper thighs. When you reach down to attempt to bring yourself closer to the edge, he grabs your wrists, pins them to the mattress, thrusts harder. “Oh no you don,’” he purrs with the slightest hint of a growl, licking along the shell of your ear, nipping your earlobe.

It may not be what you typically experience, but _damn_ , it feels great. Fantastic, even. You like this bit of beastly, of dominance he’s exhibiting. It’s exhilarating.

He bites at your shoulder, gives a particularly hard thrust, lets out a strangled gasp as your release brings him to his. When you stop constricting around him he pulls out, lets out a long, breathy, contented sigh and settles on his back on the mattress, carefully peeling the condom off and tossing it. “Let’s do that again.”

“Not right now, we ain’t. Not that it wasn’t fucking great, but I’ll need a while before I do that again.”

“True. I don’ fink I could walk right now if I tried.”

“Hey, it really was great, though.” You lean in to kiss him, and he’s back to being sweet and gentle 2D when he kisses you back. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

“Didn’ know I ‘ad it meself. An’ about what we were talkin’ ‘bout earlier…”

“We totally need to try that. Can’t say when, but we definitely need to.”

He hums a bit, curls himself around you and tugs the blankets up. “Mm. That was...actually a dream I ‘ad one time, back when we were on th’road.”

“Oh really? If that was just one dream, I’d love to hear about the others.”

“Mm, let’s get that one over wiff first, eh? Or we won’ be walkin’ for weeks.”


End file.
